hiter-than-white white man Red Bagel, founder and sometime-Editor of the commune was awarded his own publication's "You the Man of the Year" Award for the sixth year in a row, to no one's surprise. Bagel has been missing and presumed paranoid since the November re-election of evil incarnate George W. Bush, and Bagel's brother Gay presented the award posthumously to his own brother at a ceremony at the commune offices in Flatbush, New Jersey, even as Bagel's Caucasian manservant Rascal insisted his "master" was alive and willing to accept the award behind closed doors.

Gay Bagel, a miserable shell of a man, praised his brother with backhanded compliments on Red's lifelong career of spending a lot of time on something never once profitable.

"What can we say about Red that has not already been said in the poetry of stoned hippies everywhere," said Gay Bagel, reading from a fill-in-the-blanks form eulogy he acquired from the Internet. "My brother waged a war against the mentally stable everywhere in his attempts to spread the word of liars and morons. Without him around, the world is a little less prone to idiocy. But I've come here to bury Red, not to praise him, if I could but find the body. If I found him alive, then I would have come to bathe him and get him a clean suit, or at least have him cut his fingernails and stop dragging the name Bagel down into the sewers he smells like. I suppose all I really want to say here is: Red, if you are alive, anywhere, there are a lot of bills that haven't been paid yet and nobody can figure out how to get into the commune lockbox. All you here are witnesses—the man is this much closer to being declared dead, and soon I will be the boss of all of you."

And for the first time, the entire commune staff burst into tears at the thought of Red's passing.

Despite the sombering moment at the event, things cheered up when Rascal, representing Red Bagel himself, took the stage and promised us all our fearless editor was in the best of health, and thankful for his sixth consecutive win, making him the only person ever to win the YTMOTY, or "Yitmotty."

"Crikey, don't it beat all?" rattled the Australian manservant, who wore his best T-shirt to the ceremony. "Red misses y'all, I can assure ya, and soon as he feels it's 'all clear' to return to the surface, he's gonna join us for a three-week binge party of nothin' but lager, mates! Now… what say we drink up, for Red's sake?" Rascal, already drinking heavily before the announcement, devolved into a parade of Australian caterwauling understandable to no one, Australian or otherwise.

The event continued on into early evening hours, until most of us had drunken ourselves into a haze and all efforts to keep Omar Bricks away from the stereo finally failed. As 1980s nostalgia bombarded us through twin speakers, a few reporters spoke well of Red Bagel and his missing ass.

"There will never be another like Red Bagel—a man entirely devoted to his vision of a better America," said former Acting Editor Ramrod Hurley, now acting like a drunk. "An America of tomorrow, without fear and prejudice, without the suffering of the common man, and with a government forthright and honest with its own people. And now that he's gone, I call dibs on the boss job."

Hurley was bound, gagged, and wrapped in garish paper. The stamp on his head ordered us not to open until X-Mas, and I had to heartily agree.

he pharmaceutical niche player Algor released startling fourth-quarter projections this week, a reversal of fortunes many in financial circles attribute to the company renaming many of its medications for the treatment of sexually transmitted diseases. Realizing that social embarrassment may play a part in the afflicted avoiding treatment for their cursed states, Algor saw fourth-quarter sales of their best selling herpes treatment ClearVue skyrocket after the drug was changed from its longstanding name of HerpEase.

Finally bending to pressure from marketing experts, Algor has begun renaming its other not-quite-popular-enough drugs under the now commonplace industry practice of drug names that have nothing to do with a condition or its treatment. By the beginning of 2005, the company hopes to offer a complete line of attractively-named treatments for the unfortunately STDed.

GonorRid, the company's industry-standard drug for the treatment of puss-laden malcontents suffering from gonorrhea, will be shipped to pharmacies under its new label of SmoothOperator beginning in January.

A similar fate awaits the company's pride and joy, Crabex, Algor's floundering treatment for pubic lice. After months of focus group testing, Algor has recently decided to rename the drug PartyZone.

Last but not least is SyphiLess, the company's breakthrough treatment for syphilis sufferers. Though Algor has yet to make an official announcement on the renaming of this drug, early leaked reports indicate that the drug will be called either Blissex or PissFree in 2005.

But will Algor's new approach be a success? To answer that question, we went straight to STD sufferers for the real dirt.

"Oh yeah, I'd definitely buy more if it was named something like Smurfies or something, that would definitely boost sales," according to porn impresario Tori Anus, a frequent Crabex user. "Then I'd stop getting those dirty looks from the dried up old bags at the Wal-Mart pharmacy. They'd just think I'd been fucking Smurfs or something."

Determined to dig deeper into the beans of the story, this reporter conducted further research among the loose women of 1-900-HOT-DATE, likely to be experts on the treatment of cock-borne illness. In addition to providing hours or stimulating conversation, Misty and Chakra also provided great advice about writing off the cost of the toll call as a business expense.

"Algor definitely has a hot idea on their hands there," insisted Misty, a buxom brunette with smoldering green eyes. "You're getting me hot just talking about it."

"Hot and naughty," agreed Chakra, a Thai-Scottish delight who insisted on conducting the telephone interview in the nude.

No doubt the executives at Algor have done similar research, since it's loads more fun than the alternative of company execs experimentally contracting STDs themselves to see if they feel embarrassed about getting treatment. So the New Year looks to be a happy one for Algor shareholders, who haven't heard news this good since the company changed its name from Cock Rot Ltd. in 1999, amid reports that investors were too embarrassed to purchase their stock.

Confound it all! And then find it again and further confound it!

That damned Stigmata Spent was caught in a lie, ruining my chances of uncovering the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (hereby called BCW). Her insistent use of words like "sweetie" and "honey-doll" unraveled all my work pretending to be a secret shadowy former CIA agent, only an estimated 5% of which call everybody "sweetie." Or maybe her being a 6'2" black transvestite stood out as a noticeable change from when I wore the fake beard.

It matters not. The result is two-fold disaster: My previous cover is blown, leaving me out of the loop once more, and possibly worse, they've tightened the circle in their little conspiracy so I'm less likely than ever to get in. Nuts! I knew my luck would run out. I finally stumble upon the biggest earth-shaking cover-up ever, right in the early stages, and lose it all trying to win big at my annual secret-circle poker game. The irony is palpable.

But when I fall off the horse, I beat the horse to death, like they say. I don't give up. So I've already started putting together my newest disguise, and have even road-tested a few of them just to make sure.

One thing is sure: drag is out. Stigmata Spent might be able to play a convincing man, but it's probably due to the fact she was born one. I, on the other hand, make a less than convincing woman. In fact, children on the street point me out as "the fat man wearing a dress." Which is totally unfair, because though my weight may fluctuate, I'm hardly fat. I even shaved my beard and it didn't work, although my 5 o'clock shadow has already grown in by the time I hit the streets. Who knows, it doesn't have to be an entirely physical problem, it could just be my terrible sense for women's fashion.

Who wants to be a woman anyway? Besides women, of course, no cheap shot at you ladies. But I have a barrel full of disguises. A literal barrel, and they're starting to smell like pickles, since that's what I used to keep in the barrels. I can always explain away a pickle smell, however, so that's the least of my problems.

My ideal disguise would be something stylish and cool, a character that leaves the conspiracists in such awe of me they don't even ask me my name. My first choice is international Swedish jewel thief Borge Nills Wafer. 'Cause who better to add to the BCW than the world's foremost jewel thief? Of course, they may already have the world's foremost jewel thief, and then we'd have to have a major thievery contest to establish which of us is the superior thief, but that's pretty outlandish. Still, I have to plan on every contingency, I have to make my newest character infallible to their suspicions. My star-spangled jewel thief costume might not pass muster. In fact, the whole jewel thief thing may go out the window, since I'm basically a clumsy heavyset man who's never stolen anything worth taking.

I'm still working this all out on paper, as you can see.

I've got play to my strengths. I'm well-fed, spoiled, stinking rich, and obstinate in getting anything I want. Texas oil magnate seems a natural disguise, just off the top of my head. Hey! I could even go by the nickname "Tex." And conspiracists love Texas, just ask anyone in Deely Plaza in 1963.

I think it just might work. Assuming, of course, no one reading this column tips the insiders to my intentions. So let's all keep quiet out there, okay? Not only for the sake of my fun, but for the future of mankind as well.

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